


Let It Be Me

by ilup



Series: Debts and Bonds [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Good Karma, Hands, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 22:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilup/pseuds/ilup
Summary: The courier has a compulsive desire to help people. Boone doesn’t want her to get hurt.





	Let It Be Me

It must’ve been like shooting radroaches in a barrel. Inside Ranger Station Charlie, furniture laid overturned, bashed in, and broken. Lights dangled from their fixtures either flickering or blown out, and half the floor was pitted in like a checkerboard. A trooper’s body lied sprawled on the ground, hand stretched out to his gun just out of reach. Boone had spotted a trip wire and a smoke bomb as soon as they’d walked in. A mine waited next to the dead trooper and another lurked under the desk. By the black marks on the far wall, he thought maybe there were once three mines. He stopped the courier from going further, first pointing out the traps, even though he figured she’d already noticed. She was perceptive.

“We should leave,” he said. They got all the information they needed. They wouldn’t be returning to Ranger Andy with good news.

“Holotape on the desk. Could be useful.” She went for it, minding her step, grabbed it, and popped the tape into her Pip-Boy.

“— _took one of the women alive.”_  The mocking boasts of a Legion scumbag. He should’ve noticed. The place practically smelled of Legion.

Boone gripped his rifle tighter, and he could almost feel blood simmering under his skin. The courier listened, dispassionate, and raised her head with resolve, as if the tape didn’t really make her mad, just peeved there was one more _damn_ person to help. She made it look as easy as breathing, helping people—bound-up Powder Gangers to the crucified soldiers at Nelson. He’d seen how Corporal Betsy, after a long conversation with the courier, stood up straighter and walked taller to make Dhatri proud. It only took a conversation. Boone feared she might come for him next.

“Now this is proof. Folks up top might want to know about this, too,” she said. That was another thing about her—she did things by the book. Took her ages to find Jeannie May, but he was glad she did.

“To Novac?” Boone asked. Sooner they’d get out of here, the sooner they could tell Ranger Andy he wouldn’t be getting any more radio calls, and the sooner they could get back to killing Legion.

“These need to be disarmed first, so the next poor saps who come wandering in here stay in one piece.” She strode over to a frag mine and made quick work of it. “Amateur work,” she said. “Got the wiring all backwards.” She disconnected the bomb and yanked out the tripwire, not worried in the least that it might detonate in her pretty face, so long as some stranger down the road could be left whole. Watching gave him chills, and he focused back on rendering his own frag mine inert. It was too bad he couldn’t just shoot it.

The courier froze. She had heard something. After a moment, Boone heard it, too: soft whimpering noises, like a chained dog, coming from a back room, past the wall with the blackened marks. He’d tuned it out, but she had a sixth sense for trouble.

“Get me my bag,” she said. She meant her doctor’s bag, where she kept an array of medical tools, Stimpaks, and chems. Boone wondered if in her past life she was a doctor, or maybe doctoring was something she’d picked up on her quest to save every hapless soul in the wastes. He rummaged through her backpack and pulled out the zippered bag, tossed it over, and followed her past the blackened wall.

The room was a makeshift barracks, five bunks crammed into what was once an office in pre-war times. A smeared trail of red blood led to the foot of one bunk across the room. There laid a trooper. His chest rose and fell in shallow, spastic measures. He was missing his left leg from above the knee. _He’s going to need something stronger than a kiss and a bottle of whiskey_. What was left of his pant leg was soaked black. His sleeve was already rolled up revealing a pallid arm. Thin syringes littered the floor. He had been there a few hours at the most.

The courier dropped to a kneel. From her bag, she removed a treatment of Med-X.

“This—” She injected the painkiller, grimacing. “—will make you feel better.” He needed it. The trooper stopped whimpering, but his lip kept trembling. He was young, Boone gathered, newly deployed and probably figured he was going to do his time, take his stipend, and blow it all on the Strip. And now, he was bleeding out on the floor, probably going to die, but not before the courier worked some magic to save the kid. Boone shook his head to clear his mind. She hated his instinctive pessimism.

“Stay strong,” the courier said. A mine had gone off beneath his feet. His ears would be ringing for eons; he couldn't hear a thing. She comforted him as though he could. She could comfort a Nuka-Cola machine.

She took the trooper’s hand, and by the way her hand was shivering, it was cold or she was nervous. She never seemed nervous, never had a doubt in mind that she’d be able to do _something_ to make everything better. It made him feel jumpy—if the courier didn’t know what to do, then how could he? He shot that thought down.

“Mm…” the trooper mumbled. “Mama?” _Yeah, he was young._ Boone grit his teeth.

“I—I’m not your mama. I’m just someone who’s gonna help you out, alright? Just keep calm,” she said, more trying to calm herself. _Do something._

“Check his leg,” Boone said. She was already getting around to addressing the obvious.

Still holding the trooper’s clammy hand, she dug around her bag and pulled out a pair of shears and long tweezers. Before letting go, she stroked his hand with her thumb in calm, soothing circles. _How does she do it?_ She snipped away the fabric to reveal what remained. The trooper groaned as she pulled away the material. Out spilled a mixture of thick and thin blood. The stump of his thigh was swollen all shades of black to yellow. The site of detachment was a mess of red and black. There was only one real solution to this, and it pulsed in the back of Boone’s mind. But the courier had always worked miracles—there had to be another way.

She flinched in surprise, then almost guiltily, of course, she leaned forward again and mumbled platitudes: _don’t worry, please, hang on._ She felt around and grabbed a pillow case, mopped up the liquid and dug in the bag for another dose of Med-X. That was Plan B in Boone’s mind—a nice overdose of Med-X. It’d be a “good death.” Her hand came out empty. There wasn’t any left. Dread mounted in his chest.

The courier looked up at Boone with a fear he hadn’t seen before, not even when looking a deathclaw in the eye: the fear of failure, a feeling Boone knew all too well but never made the expression for.

“What are you going to do?” Boone asked. A dumb question. He’d be put down like a dog, the hard way. Real question was, who would do it?

She stood up, forlorn, and drummed her fingers on her holster. It confirmed what he already knew.

“Are you sure about this?” If there was another trick up her sleeve, she’d have used it already.

“He’s too far gone. His leg is diseased, and we don’t have the supplies or transport to get him out of here alive,” she said. She was crestfallen, her typical energy replaced with uncharacteristic gravity. “There's nothing more I can do,” she whispered.

He watched her proceed, undoing the strap of her holster and removing the gun in slow motion. She aimed with more care than he’d ever seen out of her, first pointing at his head, then shifting to his abdomen. He didn’t want to, but he remembered Carla—her naked body on the platform, the vile hands slapping and grabbing her skin. He remembered how his scope wobbled between her head and her stomach, weighing the options. He didn’t remember what he chose, only that an instant later, she had crumpled into a frenzy of red.

The courier was making deep, extended breaths, taking agonizingly long. She wasn’t used to mercy-killing. She’d only ever killed those who deserved it. Boone got his gun ready to fire. It’d be his chest, between the ribs. Shooting his face would crush her.

“I’ll do it,” Boone said. The courier’s aim faltered.

“No, please, I can do it—”

“You don’t want to. It’s better you don’t get used to it.” Boone aimed at the boy on the ground. The courier lowered her gun. He looked at her for confirmation—he wasn’t going to do anything without it. She gave one slow nod, not bringing her head back up.

He fired. The trooper’s one good leg kicked as if trying to run away, then stilled. Boone grabbed the dog tags on the way out.

—

Boone tracked a mole rat through his night-vision scope and lost it behind a plateau. Night watch wasn’t his thing, but he made the deal to keep a free room, and he couldn’t sleep most nights.

The sky was dark blue on the verge of turning colors. He’d been out a while. They had returned from Ranger Station Charlie the previous evening. She was quiet the whole walk back. Something was gnawing at her mind. She kept messing up her hair, scratching at her temple, and huffing. When they returned, she told Andy the bad news and went straight to her room. She spent so much energy on others, she never saved any for herself. If that was how hard she took the killing, how badly would she feel if she'd done it herself? It ate at him, too.

The boy was _twenty-six._ Just like him. That goddamn pitiful state. Boone wondered if he would ever succumb himself. If he ever did, he’d want to go out the same way. He interrupted that line of thought— _not gonna happen_. He fought the urge everyday. It was easier than it used to be. The courier had helped.

The door behind him opened and shut. Hairs rose on Boone’s neck. The courier kneeled by him since there was only one chair. He thought about offering it to her, but he expected she wouldn’t be staying long.

“Are you used to it?” she asked. Boone’s breathing hitched. His eyes were boring a hole in a gecko through his scope, but his brain was focused on the warmth radiating off the courier’s bittersweet smile. He wanted to say, _no, never, never will be._ It reminded him of who he was. The courier wasn’t that.

“I guess you could say that,” he said. A lie he despised. He took the shot. The gecko dropped. Wasn’t even a fire-breathing gecko or the glowing type, just a plain green gecko. Boone inhaled sharply. The courier set a hand on his forearm, the touch meeting prickly hairs. It followed her gentle pull hesitantly. She slid her thin fingers down to his wrist, then took his hand. Her fingers were icy. She slipped them between his. The courier was no pacifist; she put down legionaries like checking off a task list. Even then, she was telling him to _relax_. _Calm._ His heart pumped faster.

“I was a doctor once,” she said. Answered that question, although it implied she no longer was. She gazed downward, but her smile remained.

“You’d do good replacing Straus,” Boone said. He gestured in the direction of the charlatan’s operation. Small talk.

“I couldn’t do that kind of work. I think I’d die of boredom,” she said. She made a face at the idea of _clinical_ work. Wasn’t her realm. She’d rather charge into a burning field and save a sharecropper. Never worked for caps, only worked to quell the hurt.

She unlocked their fingers and instantly his hand felt naked, a phantom feeling between each finger. With a light touch, she traced each wrinkle of his palm, lingering on the callous across the bony ridge, another along his index finger. She inspected it, giving it a light scratch, then moved on, deepening her touch as she spanned across his palm, kneading in concentrated rotations that crinkled his nerves and set them on fire. The pain penetrated deep and wrought the muscle loose. It made him realize how tense his whole body was. Everything suddenly ached for more.

“And you?” she said. “Dino Duty doesn’t seem like your thing.”

Breathing shallow, he said, “It’s not.”

“So that’s why you came with me.”

The scale in his head—to re-enlist or not to re-enlist—teetered. Every day he found another reason to tip one way or the other. She came along, gave him another choice. A way out.

“You’re great at what you do,” she said. She was focusing on the fingers now, starting at the base and working her way up to the tips. She said something about him being brave, calculated, and composed. He couldn’t pay attention to the details, but if he could’ve, he probably would have disagreed. He was too focused on not groaning at the pain and pleasure she was causing.

“Uh-huh.”

“Me? Not so much.” She gave a low laugh under her breath.

“What? No, you’re great,” Boone stammered. She stopped her massage, and he wished she’d continue. His hand felt weak in hers.

“I didn’t do enough.” Her tone was bitter. She removed her hand from his, pushed up the front of her hair, and pointed at a long, raised scar transversing her temple. “I live, thanks to a _great_ doctor.”

“I’m glad.” Boone hadn’t been able to say that for a long time. His comment didn’t do anything to soften the darkness marring her face.

“Dying feels like…” Her words trailed off. She locked their fingers again, warm together. Boone held his breath. His left arm was tensing up from gripping his rifle so it wouldn’t fall. “It feels like when the Pip-Boy screen turns off,” she said finally. “The way the light zips toward the center. I see it every time someone dies. Their light _zips_ to the center.” She mimed it, the fingers on her off hand outspread then coming together. “I saw it yesterday. He was getting close even before we got there.” She worked her lips closed and wetted them lightly. “I didn’t do more.”

“Couldn’t,” Boone said. He coughed and swallowed the saliva thick in his mouth. “Couldn’t have done more.”

“And that’s why…”

He nodded. “Yeah. ‘S why.”

“You aren’t used to it. Don’t want to be.” She really was perceptive. No use denying it.

“Right.” He swallowed down more thick saliva. _Why was he feeling like this?_ “Mercy-killing is expected of NCR snipers. I’ve had my share. Never got used to it. Never will.” Carla’s cold body entered his mind, and he blotted it out. Had to think of the good. Bitter Springs wasn’t mercy-killing—more than that, but that was more than she needed to know. _For now._ She’d want to know.

She gripped his hand uncomfortably tight, but she breathed even. She felt safe, protected, and that was all he wanted. “Do you still think about it?”

“All the time,” he said. “Even when I sleep.”

The sun broke the horizon. He saw the dead gecko just a few hundred yards out and winced. The courier’s hand burned, and a layer of sweat slicked between their palms, but she wouldn’t let go.

“I understand now.” She brought their hands up, kindness infusing her expression in the upturn of her mouth and the lines by her eyes. She pressed her lips against the back of his hand. “I understand.”

In spite of everything, she was overflowing with love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
